A Visit from St Nicholas
by GranthamGal
Summary: Loosely based on the poem "A Visit from St. Nicholas," Robert and Cora grapple with a difficult first year of marriage and the realization that life is ever evolving. Written for the 2015 Cobert Holiday Fanfic Exchange.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to all! There will be one more chapter to my little story. :)

* * *

' _Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house_

 _Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;_

 _The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,_

 _In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;_

Robert sat by the fireplace, absently turning a glass of whiskey round and round in his grasp. The popping and crackles of the fire kept him rooted in the present moment, though his mind longed for an escape—for anything, really, that would stave off the nausea that he'd felt since leaving the house.

Boisterous laughter surrounded him, the gentlemen who had slipped the noose of responsibility all congregated around various game tables with generous helpings of holiday treats and drinks to commemorate the festive occasion. The room was decorated with garlands and ribbons and punctuated with merry bursts of song. It was the night before Christmas, after all, and Brooks's offered a raucous respite to the silence of Grantham House. But though his friends and acquaintances had called for him at random intervals, Robert had no great interest in gambling or socializing on this particular evening. And thus he sat, fixed as though struck dumb, staring into the flames.

He took a sip of his drink, relishing the slight anesthetic burn, and drummed his fingers against the glass, as he tried—not for the first time that night—to calculate backward.

September, he thought. Yes, September. The beginning of it, at least. He closed his eyes, feeling a dull thumping at the back of his head, and allowed himself to dip into the memory.

They'd argued for much of summer. He'd thought, somehow, that marriage would grow easier as the months and years went on. But by the time they rounded a six-month anniversary, the tension between them had been palpable. Cora was unhappy. She wanted more responsibility, wanted him to include her in the estate decisions that were entrusted to _him_. His mother was too harsh with her, his sister and father too withholding. And he—well, he was dense. She'd shouted that at him once, in the midst of the library!

 _Dense_. Yes, he felt rather dense today.

He supposed that he had expected things to unfold differently. And it was not as though he wished her to be unhappy; that was not what he wanted at all. He'd told her that at the garden party in late July. He'd told her that he wanted her to be happy, that he loved her and wanted to see her smile. And she had for a while. But soon even declarations of love failed to placate her. She'd told him to _stop saying it_ —to stop using his emotions as some sort of bargaining chip. And so he'd stopped. Though the feeling had certainly not gone away. He knew that she loved him; they loved each other. Even thinking such a thing now conspired to make his heart beat faster. It was a rare thing, for people like them to find love. Their love was new and fragile. But it existed, at least, and that had to count for something. Though he knew not what, exactly.

Robert took another sip and was dismayed to find the glass empty. His eyes, reddened from liquor and the smoke from the fireplace, scanned the room. Oliver and Henry were laughing loudly near a billiards table, and a band of card players in the far corner of the room had succeeded in creating a great plume of smoke from their cigars. Robert swallowed and felt a stinging in his throat from the smell.

He'd reacted badly. Sitting on his own now, he knew that for certain.

Oh, she'd been so terribly upset. They'd been locked in a disagreement all day, really. It had begun on the train and was likely down to him. He'd thought spending Christmas in London was a mad plan. His parents had, too. But Rosamund was hosting her first Christmas in Eaton Square and Cora had asked, pleaded, and then insisted that they go to show support. It was important, she had said, that they support their sister. He'd frowned at her dumbly and replied: _"you mean my sister?"_

And thus the fight had persisted for at least two weeks, on and off.

She'd finally worn him down, though—now, after his third drink, he blushed to remember just how—and so they'd been bundled off on the early train (much to his mother's chagrin) and perhaps he'd been in rather a contrary mood. But Cora was so endlessly cheery, and so unaware of how difficult it was for him to countermand his parents. He'd snipped at her when she'd suggested going for a walk; and Hyde Park _would_ have been quite crowded on the holiday eve. By dinner, though, he had tamped down the lingering resentment. And he'd thought of her smile and had smiled himself. He had made her happy. It was nice, too, to have the house to themselves. But Cora was silent at dinner. Each attempt at a conversation was met with a stilted reply. She looked uncomfortable, terribly so, and had only poked around at her dinner. The dinner that he had spent such time planning—all for her!

So yes. Perhaps he had snipped back over their postprandial drinks. But she needn't have made such a face at his offer of a whiskey to toast the holiday.

Although—well—now that he thought of it, he supposed she did.

When she'd told him, when she'd _finally_ told him (for he knew now that she must have know for at least a month) he was in no state to hear such information. No state at all! And she'd known that. Or she should have, he considered. He was already dressed for bed and had entered her room somewhat hesitantly. And she was sitting on the bed, resplendent in a cream colored nightdress with red ribbons. She smiled, and he felt somehow that his presence had encouraged it. And that made him smile, too. So he sat down and she took his hand. And she'd spoken softly, as she often did, softly and slowly.

As he replayed the scene over again in his mind, though, none of the words came to him. He could remember her smile and the way her hand had pressed against his palm. Oh, yes, he could remember the smile as though she was still before him. But the words were all a jumble, drowned in whiskey and tauntingly out of reach.

He remembered the one word. Yes, the one word had been ringing in his head for hours now like a tiny Christmas bell. It surprised him; all it took to send him into a panic unlike he'd even known was but one small word. He'd practically sprung from their bed, had snapped his hand back as though it were on fire, and had sprung from the house (after redressing, of course) in the direction of the club.

Oh—yes. That was all still painfully clear. That, and the word. Over and over it turned.

 _Baby. Baby. Baby._


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: So I began this Christmas story a year ago, and time somehow got away from me. I never intended to leave it for so long! But tis the season yet again, and so I wanted to finish it. I'm so, so sorry that this is belated. But I hope you all still enjoy it, and have a wonderful holiday season! The italicized lines are from "A Visit From St. Nicholas," which was my original prompt.

* * *

 _And I laugh'd when I saw him in spite of myself;_

 _A wink of his eye and a twist of his head_

 _Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread […]_

 _He sprung to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,_

 _And away they all flew, like the down of a thistle:_

 _But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight_ _—_

 _Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night._

The walk back to Rosamund's was rather more of a trek than Robert had anticipated. When he'd brushed off the footman stationed at the front of the club's offer to call him a hackney carriage, he'd anticipated a quick, refreshing walk through the park. He needed the air. His stomach had continued to turn in agitation, his mind doing much the same as he mulled over what he wanted to tell Cora.

But the night air was sharp and stung his cheeks; thick clouds blocked out any moonlight, and so he'd wandered right past the street he usually turned down in Soho, and what normally took him thirty minutes had taken the better part of an hour. Though it had perhaps been the whiskey, too, that had slowed him down. Each step back to Eaton Square had felt a mile, but he had, after considerable effort, reached his destination.

Robert fiddled with his overcoat pocket on the front step of his sister's townhouse, his fingers numb from cold and nearly useless, but he finally pulled out in a successful flourish the items he sought: his pocket watch and the key to the front door that Marmaduke had surreptitiously offered him on his way out the door hours earlier.

Robert unlocked the door with some hesitation—it was, according to his clock, nearly two in the morning. And the silence he met in the foyer confirmed the late hour. Not a creature stirred in the house; all but one candle had been extinguished, and only a small oil lamp (which he took up to light his path) near the staircase remained; it was, he supposed, a small mercy that he did not have to make clipped, vague excuses to some servant before removing himself to bed.

It was not sleep, though, that Robert wanted. As he moved up the staircase, quietly, careful of each step, he thought only of Cora.

He'd thought of nothing but Cora—Cora, darling Cora, and the baby—from the moment he'd left the house. Of course she would not want to hear that. Likely, he considered as he rounded the top of the stairs, he was in for rather a row. Robert furrowed his brow, still feeling his cheeks tight from the cold air, and tried to calculate exactly how long he'd been gone.

Four hours or so, he imagined. Cora would know exactly how long, and oh—Cora would be dreadfully angry. She had a right to be; he'd acted like rather a fool. His stomach began to turn again, anticipating the upset that was sure to meet him. He stood outside her bedroom door now, his hand poised to turn the knob and face her, for surely she would be waiting up. And so he tried to gather his thoughts once more, tried to exhale the nervous flutters in his stomach, and tried to ignore the faint smell of whiskey he knew was still on his breath.

He stood there frozen in thought for a moment longer. The trouble was, as he stood there then, that he had no good explanation.

He could remember now, much clearer than he could at the club, exactly what Cora had said to him.

 _Darling—my darling._

She'd been smiling, her face bright and the hint of a secret plain in the twinkle of her eyes.

And she took his hand, and she pressed it to her stomach. He'd been confused, momentarily frozen.

But then—

 _Darling, we're going to be parents. You're going to be a father._

He'd felt such joy, such unrestrained joy as she spoke. It was everything they had wanted, everything they had planned for. It had come over him in a rush of emotion, the sheer thrill of those simple words. But then his gaze had settled on her, Cora who suddenly looked so very small before him. And he allowed the words to repeat once more in his head—and then again after that.

 _Robert? Darling—aren't you pleased?_

A baby. A baby—

And he, a father?

Suddenly the abstraction that he had spent so much time imagining, so much time planning for and trying for, was resting beneath his hand. He would be, before anything else, before earl or landlord, or anything else, a father.

And in spite of himself, he had been afraid.

Even now as he stood at her door, his fear was palpable. A baby would change everything, would require him to be someone he feared himself incapable of being. Robert was dutiful, thoughtful, careful. But warm? Loving? Paternal? He feared to find himself wanting of the softness that he knew a parent should have—the softness that his own parents so sorely lacked at times.

It was a fear of the unknown. And Robert laughed now, softly and sadly to himself. For the fear felt overwhelming, but he suspected that this was only the beginning of such emotions. So he exhaled once more, turned the knob, and pushed into the room to meet his fate.

Of all the scenarios that Robert had anticipated on his return home, Cora being nestled snugly in bed and fast asleep was not one of them. But, to his minor astonishment, the room was almost completely dark, and he could hear the steady puffs of Cora's breath come in an even rhythm in the silence of the room.

He'd half a mind to leave her asleep and wait until morning to apologize properly. But now that he knew it was not only Cora in the room, but Cora and the baby, he felt himself rooted in place once more. He watched her intently, feeling comfort in the soft hum of her breaths.

He found himself wondering what the baby would look like, wondering if it would have the same dark hair as Cora, the same blue eyes? And then he began to pace, the lamp knocking against his knee, as he tried to calculate exactly when the baby would arrive. Spring? Summer? His brow furrowed again as he realized he'd not a clue exactly how long those sorts of things went on.

Robert was still deep in thought when movement at the window caught his eye. Looking up, he was not particularly surprised to find the curtains parted ever so slightly. For all his pleading, Cora always insisted that she slept better when a little moonlight was allowed into the room. It was far too cold now for such fancies, and Robert felt a pang of fear at the thought of the baby somehow being cold. But he padded over to the window anyway, and drew the curtain back a little more to investigate.

The window was nearly fogged over, and so Robert wiped the pane for a clearer view. It was, he realized as he peered through the small circle he'd made, snowing.

"Cora!"

He called her name almost involuntarily. All she'd talked about since the first of December was snow. How it would snow in Cincinnati, snow so much that the roads and doorways would be entirely blocked off, how it would snow in New York and make everything look perfectly festive and bright. He hadn't the heart to tell her that snow never seemed that glamorous in London; no, all it seemed to do was highlight the grime and dirt on the streets, make inconvenient puddles, and slow down the methodical tick of movement in the city.

But now it was snowing and as it flew down from the sky, it looked wonderfully magical.

He called her name again, this time dropping the lantern onto the floor and crossing the room. He settled a hand on her shoulder and shook her carefully, brushing an errant strand of hair away from her face, too.

"Cora," he repeated as she blinked open her eyes, "Cora, it's snowing."

If she was confused by his presence in her bedroom, or his insistent tapping on her shoulder, Cora did not show it. She sat up, slowly, taking a moment to blink away her sleep, and then reached for her discarded dressing gown at the foot of the bed.

Snapping into action, Robert grabbed the garment and held it up for her to step into. Cora pulled herself out of bed with a somewhat bemused expression, and gratefully accepted his help.

She followed him back to the window and sat in the small window seat, mirroring Robert's actions as she wiped away the fog from the glass.

"Oh, it's lovely, isn't it?"

Robert nodded silently in agreement, content to watch Cora as she gazed out the window in wonderment. He reached down to grab her hand and was pleased when she let him.

"Cora darling, I just want you to know—"

"It really is lovely," she interrupted, looking back up at him from her perch. "Thank you for waking me." She squeezed his hand tightly, and turned back to the window.

Sensing that she wanted only silence, Robert took up the place beside her, though he was careful not to let go of her hand as he sat.

"It really is magical," she murmured, a vague, sleepy smile etched across her face.

"It is," Robert agreed, still looking at his wife. "And just think—"

He paused, waiting for her to turn back to him, and then guided their hands to her stomach, pressing ever so slightly.

"—This time next year we'll have a little one to share it with."

Cora nodded, and they shared a smile. It was, Robert considered, one of the first times that no words seemed necessary between them. He would, of course, apologize in the morning. But sitting next to Cora in that moment all he could feel was peace. In the blessed silence of their room, their fingers tightly, carefully woven together, he knew that there was nothing at all to dread.

It was all so wonderfully magical.


End file.
